She lay crushed against him, her head on his chest. Her long fingernails played with the smattering of black hair between his pecs. He was asleep, perhaps; regardless, she repeated the same two phrases, over and over: "I hate you. I love you."
He spoke, and she wasn't surprised. "Everything I've ever done for you, I've done to keep you safe."
"And now?"
"It is not safe to love me."
She clung to him tighter, her skin a sticky mess of his sweat and other things. "No one is safe."
"You could be, without me. And John will be soon."
"You would do anything for him."
"I would do anything for you, too. And I will, once this is fixed."
She ran her fingertips over his nipple, which made him twitch beneath her touch. "What are you going to do, Sherlock?"
He paused, silent, and ran his fingers down her spine. "If all goes well, you'll never hear of it. And I'll come to you, and we'll go away."
She pretended. "Where will we go?"
"We'll be librarians."
She chuckled and rose up on one elbow to look at him. "Will we?"
"Endless books. Quiet. You in my bed every night."
She pushed hair off his forehead. "You'll get bored."
"I can't wait to be bored."
"But only after this … thing you have to do."
Her words seemed to send him far away to a place of darkness and fear. His eyes changed; his lips grew tight. Even lying in bed, his shoulders seemed to creep up his neck. She knew then he was never coming back to her. She suffocated her horror with a deep kiss.
"After," she said, to save him from speaking.
"Yes. After," he mumbled.
"I want you to know, I'm sorry if I hurt you, in anything I've done."
"A final farewell to a dead man?"
She ran her nose down his forehead and next to his own. "I can finally say it. I've lied about it before. But I'll be honest now."
He waited, silent.
"I am so sorry I ever met you."